Sunday, July 27, 2008

Know It All Neighbors, Sheesh!

Today the goddess speaks about herself:

It's not been a bad week. Of course, I speak of what is now the past week, it being Sunday and all. It wasn't bad and it wasn't good. We took my car in for service, at the beginning of the week, and I haven't seen it since. I went to Cracked Pots, had a head-slapping, feet stomping moment with my neighbor, walked all over town (no car), rode in a boat up the Columbia, and womanned the wire sculpture table at Summer Celebration with my husband. The not good parts were not feeling great, and missing out on the dancing in the streets that happens every year in my town. 

I have walked up and down the bleeding, ridiculously steep hill that exists between me and downtown every day for a week. It is quite a triumph actually. The first time I ever did it, I was in tears by the time I reached the top. Did I mention that this hill is ridiculously steep? I remember being so excited to finally live close enough to town to walk in, only to curse the day we exchanged our seven mile, flat surface bike ride, for a one mile climb up Mt. Vesuvius minutes into the first walk home. The people around here call it a 'hill'. They drive cars.

Wednesday saw me at Edgefield, wending my way through the miles of yard art, and a hundred hopeful artists. It was pretty amazing. I started drinking a couple of weeks ago, and helped myself to two glasses of wine before the excursion. Mmmm, black rabbit red. It didn't really help in the energy department, but it sure tasted yummy. It was pleasant to be on the wending end of the event. As I walked through, I couldn't help noticing how tired, hot and bored the artists were. I have certainly paid my dues there. We leave the sales all up to the galleries now, but I remember a time when my husband liked to do the shows so that he could interact with the clients. It is way more fun to look than to sell, especially when you are at a place that lets you carry your wine  glass around, and get it refilled at every corner. 

At some point during the week, oh wait, on THURSDAY, at 10:50 am, my end of week funk started. Well, I'd had a booster each morning that week, but Thursday was  evil day. It was my physical. I got on the scale, the scale at the doctor's office, the accurate one. For years and years I have not had a scale. It seems sadistic. Why ruin a perfectly good day by looking at how much more you weigh now than before the gods started playing their little jokes? However, I was told to weigh myself everyday to check for sudden weight gain. Apparently that is a bad sign of something, and that something is something I'm supposed to be on the alert for. What that means is that I have stepped on a mini torture machine every day for three months. First I was horrified at how much I had  gained. Then, I was horrified at how much I had gained, and finally, I was slightly relieved at a little weight loss. uP, uP, DOwn. This trend does not bode well. . . 
Despite walking EVERYWHERE, with the daily trip up and down the ridiculously steep hill, and the cardio at the gym, AND not eating very much  there had been a little weight gain on my scale. The doctor's scale wasn't as polite as mine. It was very, very rude. It told a different story; the story put me in a funkish mood. Upon returning home, I immediately leashed up the dog, and headed down the hill. (Immediately after spending the entire day in the recliner, going to bed, and getting up the next morning). 

It was Friday by the time I rallied myself for the immediate walk. I was almost home when my across the road neighbor pulled alongside me. She commented on how she sees me walking everywhere these days. So, brandishing my humorous bravado, I told her how the dog had lost weight, but I had been gaining  -- a lot. I asked her opinion, hoping for a response along the lines of , "Oh no, you look great!" (Which I do no matter what the scale says). Instead she asked me a question. She asked if I'd been drinking. No, not because she thought I was drunk. She just said how her daughter always  complains of gaining weight, but the minute she stops drinking the weight comes off. This is the head-slapping part, or should have been. I responded that yes, I had given myself permission to start drinking again two weeks ago . . .        Hmmm. . . about the same time I started to pack on the pounds! First I wanted to deny it then, I started stomping my feet in hot anger. It's not fair!! It is summer, I should be able to suck back a few margaritas and mojitos without having to shop for bigger pants! I  stomped home as cold reality sunk in. I had barely gotten the leash off of my slim, little princess dog before I not so drunk dialed my neighbor. She'd barely had a chance to get inside her house to answer the phone.   "Damn you, Karen!", I stormed, "It IS the alcohol!"  She laughed at me. LAUGHED. See if she gets her plate of Christmas cookies next December!  Well, I told her off a little bit, ranting about how I was certainly not going to give up drinking before Helen's birthday dinner that night, or the white russians a certain friend always sneaks into summer celebration,  or the wine and gab fest set for Sunday. Sheesh! 

OK, so I planned to have just one mojito at Helen's birthday dinner. Yeah, well, that first one  was just so darned good. Helen had  two . . . I had two. Then came the boat trip. Dinner was at the Puffin, which is on a pier in the Columbia. The people who own the Puffin have a boat at the pier. They are friends of Helen. It was her birthday. We went for a ride. Did I mention it was a party boat? It was peer pressure, man. Everyone was doing it, drinking that is -- embibing in the elixir of fat cell production. Oh sweet sabotage. Needless to say, I didn't get up early the next morning. I also didn't get on the scale. Why bother? I wouldn't have to be psychic to know ahead of time what the outcome of that little venture of just two steps would be. Funk, funk, funk all the next day. I drug myself through my volunteer stint at the wire sculpture table, put on a good face for all of the kiddies (didn't even notice my mother working at the table across from me for the  first hour) and had my son drive me home, before the dancing in the streets, and with a coconut popsicle in one hand and a Corona in the other. What the heck.

May peace and a trash can large enough to fit a bathroom scale be yours from, The Goddess of Everything.


 

2 comments:

Sister2 said...

Funny, funny, funny; I mean, the way you wrote it is funny. The NOT Fair part of the story is...well, NOT FAIR.

Things that puzzle this other goddess.... said...

Oh Baby! Do I feel your pain! LOL Thank you for my chuckle and you always look great to me... :)